VTM Redemption: Renewal
by Synthetic Voice
Summary: Somewhat of a sidestory for VTM Redemption starring Wilhem and Serena - there are spoilers, so if you have not played the game, take care if you read. Christof and Anezka aren't the only two with relationship problems...
1. Chapter 1

_Prague. 14__th__ century._

He was a blank slate. A mere outline of man, and God had left the lines untraced, incomplete. Yes, his figure was complete and firm, his fists as true to the blade as any other warrior. He had done his cause full and true, but there was something lacking.

Conviction.

Passion.

For all his firm form, he was flexible. Malleable. Willing to bend to any idea that sounded right, that was deemed good for the Promethean cause. Still he only ever followed his sire, and Ecaterina, the leader of the Brujah Prometheans. There were no other Gods for him, not after the Embrace, and then no life but orders until Christof Romuald showed his face. Christof, who decided that it would be he who would pass judgment upon others rather than leaving it to those who might know better.

First, while he was still kine, he killed Azhra the Unliving. A strong leader of the Tzimisce, he slew her with his faith and his blade, unknowingly bringing down an enemy foothold and allowing the Prometheans another inch back into their own territory. Ecaterina found him acceptable, and embraced him into the Brujah clan that very night.

Christof came and slew Azhra and others, bringing with him his righteous light that was lit by a kine woman. Anezka, his mortal love, a nun who had been thrown into the devil's pit trying to seek a way to save her crusader from the damnation that had befallen him.

With the cause came others - Erik, the crazed Gangrel whom Christof saved from the clutches of the Tremere, and lost just as quickly.

Serena, the Cappadocian. Wilhem had known the Cappadocians well - their leader Garinol (Serena's own sire) and Ecaterina were steadfast allies. Yet they too were much like Christof's own personality - they saw too late the fault in others. Serena was no different, and still Wilhem despaired when her heart was given away to another.

And yet here they were, entwined in a close fitting coffin in the underground rooms of the Prague University, Ecaterina's dwelling, until the set of the sun. The Brujah and the Cappadocian, a pairing that could not be more odd. Though they found reason to remain close, they were still torn apart by the one thing that had brought them together.

"Serena?" She spoke not, but instead moved her head in an acquiescence of reply, burying her face in the hollow of his throat, hands resting on his chest. Wilhem stilled his tongue, resting his chin on the top of her head, knowing that sleep eluded them both for different reasons. Serena, for the loss of Christof and his death at Vysehrad. He, for the loss of her broken heart that he could never mend. Shifting in the coffin, his vulnerable, unarmored arms wound around her more tightly. Still the coldness of the grave never left either of them. Locked as they were together, in something that they could never attain, though they tried – oh, so did they try. They had seen beauty, and tried to attain it - but it seemed that, once more, God had seen fit to leave it incomplete.

Time passed.

Cold steel broke the silence of the night – still the battle waged on, night after night after bitter, unrelentless night. The Tzimisce fought for the right to rule, over both Kindred and kine in a tyrannical fashion that would surely bring about Gehenna and the final nights. The Prometheans fought until there was nothing left to save but shattered ruins, and then fled to the Isle of the Anglo-Saxons. Wilhem would follow, bringing with him Serena, who had little left to stay for as well; the Giovanni had turned against their creators and had begun to slaughter the Cappadocians. Their outlook was their downfall, and Wilhem sought to save the one that he found precious.

They had to flee to save their own lives – the Promethean cause seemed lost. Serena was nearly unwilling to leave – fear had broken her mind, and she had become obsessed with locating Chrisof's spirit in hopes of bringing it back to life with Cappadocian disciplines. Wilhem knew the cause was dead, and was willing to abandon it, yet Serena held on.

"There is nothing left here, for either of us! The bloodhunt on your kind will kill you if you do not leave with me now!" Serena refused to look at him, instead staring out a window of the second floor of the university. Outside, flames licked the walls – the final act of destroying any hold the Prometheans had had: burning their stronghold to the ground. She was so certain that she was close to Christof's spirit, and there would be no other time to resurrect him once they left. Once the fire consumed all.

"I know you wish me to restore him as much as I! Why do you not give me this chance?!"

"Christof is dead, Serena! There is no life after the final death! Come with me, please!" One of his hands encircled her thin, emaciated wrist. Though Cappadocians were pale and corpse-like in complexion naturally, Serena had always had an air of her natural beauty. Even now that was being worn away, like water passing over marble. He pulled, attempting to lure her into his arms, but she resisted. She pulled away from him, gritting her teeth, and for a moment they were caught in a limbo, the only connection the one he was forcing on her. Wilhem sighed in exasperation, releasing her arm and stepping back. Always, he was stepping back, never taking ground on his own terms.

"Please, Serena, we must leave now! If we do not, the Tzimisce will be here in moments!" A silence fell, and then Serena's small but musical voice broke it.

"Christof wouldn't have run. He would've fought, or died trying." It wasn't meant to wound; it was a mere remark. A silent and passive judgment on both of them, on Ecaterina and the others who had run. Still, Wilhem was cut to the quick. All of it was a façade, but it was enough for him. At wit's end, he began to drag her towards the door, grabbing a thick, black cape to throw over her pale features. It was far too obvious what clan she came from, and once they knew that she had aided Christof, the slayer of Azhra the Unliving, her death would be sought for by more than just the Giovanni.

The reality of the events unfolding around her sank into her as the thick cloth settled on her shoulders. Her glittering green eyes met Wilhem's.

"Take me away from here," she whispered.

* * *

_England. 16__th__ century._

More time passed. Things changed – groups were being formed, to make the war more organized, or so it seemed to Wilhem. The alliances that Ecaterina had worked so hard to forge, along with others who had looked to rally their own causes, were falling apart in favor of new organizations.

The Camarilla, who forced all into their own corner, enforced a Masquerade that ordered all to remain out of the sight of kine. Rather than co-existing peacefully, they would rather themselves the stuff of nightmares and allow kine to shield them.

Their opposition: the Sabbat, taking the extreme side of wishing to rule over the kine and revel in their monstrosity.

"How…how could she choose such an atrocious group?" Serena stared at Wilhem from across the small apartment they shared in England. She was seated on a sparsely furnished bed, in a room so bare that to any passing through it would seem no one lived there. There was still little safety to be found in these times, especially with the new formations. If one did not heed by any of them, then one would be hounded by all.

"Ecaterina will not force herself into seclusion. She pushes for the dream of the Prometheans, and the city where we may all live in peace." Even to his own ears, the statement sounded foolish, but he would not disobey the ones who had led him this far. Words came to mind, from Ecaterina's own lips: _perhaps it is you, Wilhem, who is the pupil, and Christof who is the teacher._ How much he had learned, in that short of time.

"But it is madness! You see what they do! They don't want peace, they desire chaos!"

"Ecaterina would not enforce their rule, simply abide and then drive against them once the chance is found! Can you not see the wisdom in that? We will kill ourselves by trying to hide in that foolish Masquerade. We shall be driven insane by having to hide." Serena shook her head in disagreement, but fell silent. Of all the disagreements they'd had over the years, this had come to be the worst. Wilhem feared for her sanity and had deemed that she should not go out; otherwise the Giovanni might find her. He brought her blood, literature, scrolls, anything for her amusement, but what little love that might have once been between them was broken. He knew that she no longer saw him as a savior, but as a captor.

"Please, Serena…" She raised a hand for his silence, the pale fingers curled into something akin to a claw, and stood to collect her few meager belongings. Wrapping herself in a cloak, she walked to the door with purpose. Wilhem stood dumbfounded as he saw her about to leave him.

"I can no longer allow you, or her, to make the choices, Wilhem. Sometimes…sometimes one must think for themselves." Their eyes met for one long moment, and the thought flew through his head that he wished he had done something differently. But he did nothing.

Then the door was shut, and she was gone.

Wilhem still kept watch over her, but it wasn't more than a week later that he heard of an attack on a young woman. Both Kindred and kine heard of it, and the kine were whispering to each other that the demons were turning on each other, for when her body was laid out in the light of day, she turned to naught but dust.

Wilhem's heart turned to stone as he followed his sire and Ecaterina to the New World, in order to be the first to establish rule and influence.


	2. Chapter 2

_New York, New York. 1899._

He looked down upon the alley from the top of a building – in his hand was a newly minted blade, ready to be tested against flesh. Though new, the blade was an old weapon fallen far out of fashion in these modern times. Still, old habits died hard. Wilhem had been stalking a party of Tzimisce ghouls, finding more information about the resurrection they were planning. Rumors of it had been circulating for years, and he knew the truth of it when he had accompanied Christof to foil that attempt so long ago at the battle of Vysehrad. It seemed that they had been struggling to bring it about, but numerous failings plagued the cause. Wilhem was about to be another one of those obstructions.

"Where is he?" A slovenly dressed ghoul hissed at another. Their associate, assumedly another Tzimisce ghoul, was late. Wilhem would listen long enough to hear the information, and then there would be no more use for any of them.

"Why are they using the Ventrue as allies? They can't be trusted!" Wilhem's ears perked up at this bit of news – Ventrue? Allied with the Tzimisce? This was shocking news indeed.

"How else will we keep the damned Camarilla off of our backs long enough to raise Vulodlak?! It was deemed the only way. This will be the year, this will be the time. Vulodlak will rise and destroy the Antediluvians, and we will take our rightful –"

"Shut up, you fool! You think we are alone here, in this pitiable kine city? There are ears everywhere!" The chatterbox received a harsh cuff in public, but back in their haven he would probably be punished far more brutally. Wilhem sat back on his heels to consider this piece of information. If he could find the Camarilla informant, Ecaterina would have a weighty hand to play indeed. Still, it was strange that the two clans, so inversely different in characteristics, would find themselves allied. There was treachery afoot somewhere. He continued to listen, waiting for the last to arrive. Hours passed.

"Something's gone wrong. We…"

"Look! Up there!" One of the ghouls pointed up to where Wilhem was roosting. He drew his sword and leapt from the roof, coming down four stories to land amidst the group of them. Adapting celerity immediately, he dispatched two of them with a single strike before any of them even blinked. The rest became wary and stepped back, but Wilhem could not afford to let any of them leave. Rather than have them know it was one of the Sabbat's own, let them think the Camarilla had wised up. This would play into the hand of whoever was playing both groups, but Wilhem wanted them to be confident. The higher they are…the harder they fall.

He slashed at another, chopping off an arm and bringing a scream to the not so quiet night time streets of New York. Another chop severed the head from the body, effectively silencing the scream. One of the ghouls leapt onto Wilhem's back while another charged at him from the front, distracting him from the claws of a third. They began to back him into a corner, but Wilhem turned the tables when he slammed into a nearby wall to shove the one off of his back. Stunned, it fell to the floor and a neatly placed dagger ended its pathetic undead life. Wilhem didn't even need to turn to stab the ghoul, either, and the calm exterior that permeated him unnerved the rest of the ghouls.

He slashed another, killing it, and the last turned to run straight into the street. Wilhem gave chase, and threw himself at the ghoul to take it straight into the next alley, disallowing it to escape. He drove his sword straight through the ghoul's back and through its undead heart, effectively dispatching it with little mess.

"Oh my God! You just killed him!" Wilhem turned sharply to see a young woman standing at the entrance of the alley; she had seen the whole affair, and now her hands were clasped over her mouth in shock, eyes wide with fear. She stank of it, and of blood, something Wilhem was craving since the beginning of the battle. Without thinking, Wilhem picked himself up faster than humanly possible. He grabbed the woman, pulled her into the alley, and feasted to replenish the blood he had to squander in order to eradicate the ghouls.

After he dispatched the ghouls, Wilhem returned to his haven to report to Ecaterina.

"You're back sooner than expected. Did something go awry?" Wilhem shook his head, cleaning his blade as he entered the haven. He had already cleaned it after slaying the last of the ghouls – a good warrior knows never to sheath his blade wetted with blood – but the action was more out of habit than anything. He stood before his mistress, sheathed the sword, and set it on the table to his right. Ecaterina had changed little in their time in America – she still wore the flowing dresses, though they had a modern cut. Her face, irreparably scarred before her embrace, was covered with its customary scarf. Wickedly intelligent brown eyes bore into him, waiting for her answers.

"Yes, and no. I believe someone knew that I had been sent to spy on the ghouls – their contact never arrived, and they spotted me four hours after they were set to meet. I slayed all of them." Ecaterina's eyes darkened, unhappy with these events. Before she could speak, Wilhem continued.

"But I did learn something interesting before this occurred. There is reason to believe that there is a Ventrue turned against the Camarilla, informing the Sabbat against them. Leaving none of the ghouls alive leads the Sabbat to believe that the Camarilla found out – and the Camarilla will simply be left wondering who slaughtered a handful of Tzimisce ghouls." A hand rose to Ecaterina's scarf in thought.

"This is most interesting. Who would be foolish enough to aid the Sabbat in the resurrection of Vulodlak? This nonsense about Gehenna and final nights certainly brings the inane ones out of the wood work, as it stands." Wilhem watched his mistress think, knowing she would find some way for them to turn this to their advantage. For now, though, she simply gave him more orders.

"Keep an eye out for this…informant. Until such a time as you discover who might it be, I want you to continue hounding the Tzimisce. Unless the Sabbat discovers it's someone else other than the Camarilla, we should not fear for any retaliation. Rather, they will simply war against each other." Wilhem nodded – it was dangerous work, playing both sides against each other, but it kept either from advancing further than they wished.

The Promethean dream of the utopic city where Kindred and kine would live together in peace lived on, though at a cost that Wilhem had not considered.

* * *

_New York, New York. 1999._

Wilhem could not believe his eyes.

When he had first heard the news, the actuality of it had not sunk in, but now, with the proof smiling back at him in friendly conduct, he could not help but rejoice.

"Ecaterina had given you up for dead, Christof, long ago." _As had we all, _he added in his mind, thinking of the others whose lives Christof had touched, changed. Perhaps even made better.

"Then who sent the summons that awoke me?"

"I know not, but I am glad that they did. And I am glad I was here in time to stop the Assamite from leading you even more astray." Pink, an Assamite assassin masquerading as a Brujah foot soldier, had been assigned to Christof by the Tzimisce in order to slow him from reaching the resurrection in time. Wilhem had been informed of Christof's presence in time to rescue him from final death in the bowels of the Giovanni warehouse at the hands of a coldhearted killer. It was something a man like Christof didn't deserve.

"I am as well, my friend. How did you come to find me here?" Wilhem slid a hand into the pocket of his black slacks, matching the plain black dress shirt. The modern day clothes looked good on him, but he still felt odd outside of simple cotton shirts and steel armor.

"Ecaterina learned of it, and sent me thus to save you from the Assamite's treachery. Her surprise matched my own to find you alive and well." He continued, answering Christof's next question before he had a chance to ask it.

"The Tzimisce destroyed everything in Prague. As the years passed, groups formed – the Camarilla, and the Sabbat. Ecaterina would not hide within the Camarilla's cowardly Masquerade, and thus joined the Sabbat. Ecaterina is an archbishop." The surprise on Christof's face was a familiar emotion. How often had he been shocked by the ways of the Kindred and other night folk? How naïve had he been? Was he still?

"But…how?! I cannot believe that she would find their company better! How has she changed?! How have you…?" His hands clasped, empty of the guns he had been holding earlier. How quickly he had adapted to his new surroundings – just like when he had been newly turned. Rather than defy, or go insane, he found others, learned, and then fought against what he deemed wrong.

"Be still, Christof. Ecaterina does not follow the other Sabbat leaders, like the one they are trying to raise tonight. Instead she fights against them, and still for the Promethean ideals. But I fear…I have lost much of my humanity. The things I have seen…and done, make it difficult." The last few words were spoken with much force – images of Serena's face as she left through that door felt only like yesterday. To a vampire of Wilhem's age, it was only yesterday. His blue eyes drifted to the floor, as though not worthy of looking upon one who followed his heart. There was no way for him to explain himself to one such as Christof. Wilhem had long since stopped seeing the world in the black and white colors he once had – everything was now shades of gray. The choices he had made to protect others now seemed irrational, almost foolhardy. And yet, his mind told him that there had been no other way.

"Then fight with us, my friend, and redeem thyself." Wilhem smiled at the invitation, looking up at his salvation and meeting Christof eye to eye. It was so like him, and Wilhem found that he had been missing the blatant honesty of his old friend.

"I shall." Aiding his friend felt like old times again. He told them what he knew of the Ventrue traitor – none other than Count Orsi, the same man who had tricked them into killing the leader of the Vienna Lasombra clan, the same man who had imprisoned them once he had no more use for them. Wilhem had no idea how such a greedy, unintelligent man would've found favor within the Tzimisce ranks, but there was far too much at stake to ponder it for longer.

With the Toreador Lily and the Nosferatu Simon that Christof had recruited to his cause, they ransacked the Tzimisce flesh temple, finding within Anezka and her master. There, they learned of her past and the wicked deeds she had been forced to commit in order to defile her pure soul. How she had begun to trick Vulodlak into paranoia, bringing unhelpful and incompetent allies to the fore front so that the resurrection might never come to pass – Wilhem noted this, realizing the power of faith; not only in one's God, but simply in another.

They slew the beast Vulodlak the Sabbat struggled to raise in order to do away with the Antediluvians, and Christof was reunited with his beloved Anezka. Once Christof had embraced her, the two left for Europe, intent on making the most of the time the two of them had lost.

Wilhem still stayed by Ecaterina, following her orders. But now he was beginning to wonder himself, and wander out of curiosity. Rumors were circulating in the air, and old friends were beginning to come out of the woodwork now that the new millennium was upon them and Gehenna had not come to pass.


	3. Chapter 3

_New York, New York. 2001._

There had been rumors, and Wilhem was a bloodhound in these circumstances. It was a faint hope, but he had few whims in these modern times. Ecaterina had embraced new fledglings, and he had trained them. Now he had a little time to himself, spending it in earnest search.

The club was Goth themed, going back to the 80's, though tasteful. But the dancers – the dancers were said to go further back than that, and one in particular drew Wilhem's interest. As he walked in, a driven beat blared from speakers hidden in rafters – the entire club was set on the waterfront in an old warehouse, something the kine found entrancing. Tables and chairs littered the floor, but down the middle was a purple-stained catwalk, phallic shaped to ensure that the patrons knew where they were. A pole graced the end of the stage, allowing for the dancers to work their skill.

Dressed more liberally than he was used to in jeans, a plain white T and a leather jacket, Wilhem took a seat near the back of the bar to watch the show and find out for himself if indeed gossip might stem from truth. Slipping out of the jacket, he left it on the chair and waved away all offers, be it drink, sex, or otherwise, that came from other scantily-clad dancers milling about the floor in order to cater to the patrons. His eyes were solely on the stage – hours went by, and still the one he had come here for did not make her appearance. Most patrons in the club were kine, a few Kindred, mostly either of the Toreador or Brujah variety – a mixture that did not promise good things. Still, this area seemed to be considered Elysium, though no powerful Kindred owned this club.

Or so he thought.

Suddenly a voice blared out over the speakers.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen! The moment you've been waiting for – the treat you've been dying for! Our very own club mistress, Christina!" A slow, operatic voice rang out over the speakers, singing melodically for a few moments as the lights dimmed down. Then music faded in over the voice and lights lit up the stage, bringing it to life.

Curtains at the end of the stage parted to reveal a woman, though still hidden in the shadows. A male voice echoed out of the speakers, gliding with her movements.

_Bound at every limb by my shackles of fear  
Sealed with lies through so many tears  
Lost from within, pursuing the end  
I fight for the chance to be lied to again_

Lights panned down to where she was standing. She stood at the end of the catwalk, dressed in a loose fitting, sheer gown cinched at the waist, hair pulled to the side to expose a long, swan-like neck; underneath could be seen lingerie, but only in her movements. She started with her arms, caressing up and down, then slowly smoothing her thin hands down the gown.

As she did, it began to tear – off of her shoulders, down her arms, slowly revealing flesh. The torn cloth became a veil that she threw over her face, and tattoos suddenly slithered across the white flesh of her arms, belly, and back. Spinning, she danced her way down the catwalk in four inch black stilettos, the black bra and panties barely hiding anything.

_They'll never see  
I'll never be  
I'll struggle on and on to feed this hunger  
Burning deep inside of me_

It was obvious that the song appealed to the Kindred members of the club, but everyone was entranced by her. She swayed methodically through the spotlights, allowing each only to highlight a strip of flesh or an angle to which she held her form. Though it was erotic, it wasn't tasteless – she held herself up to a higher standard and the results thereof were amazing. The veil slid over her flesh, around her limbs as she stretched impossibly, bending and gyrating to tease and tempt her audience.

_But through my tears breaks a blinding light  
Birthing a dawn to this endless night  
Arms outstretched, awaiting me  
An open embrace upon a bleeding tree_

_Rest in me and I'll comfort you  
I have lived and I died for you  
Abide in me and I vow to you  
I will never forsake you_

She reached the pole at the end of the stage, and leaned up against it with her back, the veil drooping to the floor. Slowly she went down, bending knee and just about any other flexible part of her body. Then she spun, wrapping legs around the pole and pushing up, hands grasping and sliding along the length of it, slowing just enough to tantalize the viewer. Her hips gyrated into the pole, grinding into the pelvis of everyone there in the club at that moment.

Her face was that of ecstasy, black-painted lips parted and kohl-smeared green eyes glittering, of feeding off of the energy of everyone in the room. She flipped upside down on the pole and from somewhere the wicked flash of a razor appeared, parting the flesh across her throat. Blood trickled up, then down as she spun, spraying the crowd with the crimson. Another slash opened a vein on her arm, and another on her leg. The blood poured freely, awakening the lusts of the Kindred in the club. A few pulled their human meals closer to them, though most were in control.

_They'll never see  
I'll never be  
I'll struggle on and on to feed this hunger  
Burning deep inside of me_

She turned to move back down the catwalk, coming down in splits and twisting her body over and over and over again, bringing to life the fantasies of any hot-blooded male. Her hands caressed where they wanted to touch her, teasing and making no promises, slipping through the blood.

It seemed that it was forever, endless and flowing…

And then the song ended abruptly, the curtain closing behind her as though she had never been on the stage. A collective breath was let out by the crowd, not even realizing they had been holding it. They glanced at one another, and then a wild applause broke out, complete with wolf whistles and calls for another dance, the coppery scent of blood thick throughout the atmosphere. Several Kindred were already leading their meals out of the club, their appetites whetted by the performance.

"That's it folks! Give it up for Christina Death, owner of _Bella Morte_! If you want to see more of that gorgeous Gothic action, head back here every Tuesday! Next up, Candy…" But Wilhem was done listening – he knew it was her, but how would he reach her? He grabbed his coat and moved to the side of the stage, where a bouncer denied him access.

"Take a message, something, please! I must speak with her!"

"Buddy, don't think you're the first to be smitten with Ms. Death. Trust me, right after you're done throwing your tantrum, there'll be ten more waiting in line right behind you."

"I know her! Please! Tell her –"

"I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to move along –" It was right then that the curtain to the right of the bouncer parted and green eyes glittered from the darkness. She was wrapped in a black silk robe, held closed only by one thin, pale hand.

"Let him through, Brian." The bouncer's mouth dropped open, but he shifted to one side as he was told without any argument. She was indeed the mistress of the house. Wilhem froze to the spot for a moment, and then swiftly stepped through the curtain into the darkness beyond.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The song used is _Lies_ by Evanescence. I claim no ownership, yaddah yaddah yaddah.


	4. Chapter 4

He had a million questions for her, and yet he still found himself speechless. It wasn't a spell of hers, that he knew – no, it was something he was unfamiliar with. Something he had felt since he lost her.

Fear.

Serena, now called Christina Death, motioned at a chair in her dressing room; it was plush and black, like everything else in the club. She took her own chair at the vanity, and continued removing her make-up from her face. He sat, silent, and watched as the youthful facade fell off and the corpse-like face reappeared, the one he knew so well. Even in the undeath of vampirism, of being a Cappadocian, she was still beautiful. She had rinsed the blood off of her body, though she still stank heavily of it.

"Serena…"

"Please don't use that name, Wilhem. I'm Christina – I have been for a good number of years now." Her speech lost all the cadence it used to hold when speaking in old English – no, now it was tough. Musical, but strong as though tempered a million times over in a forge of magma. She brushed a hand through her hair, pushing all of that long, black loveliness back over her shoulders. A long line of flesh swept down from the hollow of her throat, over her breasts, and back into the darkness of the black robe.

"Christina…" He tried out the new name, feeling the strangeness of it. She turned in her chair, and smiled at him, then turning the chair about completely so she could look at his face.

"Its strange how time changes us all. How have you been, Wilhem?" He studied her face, now completely stunned. First Christof resurrected himself from the dead, and now…He returned her smile, trying to be jovial, but failing miserably. It took all of his willpower to not stride across the few feet separating them and sweep her up into his arms, but if there was one thing Wilhem was never lacking in, it was willpower.

"Well. Ecaterina has been…" Serena raised a hand, a smirk quirking her features.

"I asked after you, not her." A full smile blossomed over his face – yes, this was certainly Serena.

"I have been well. Practicing the old craft of training new fledglings in the blood, so I might have some time for myself. Of course they are Ecaterina's, not mine." Serena nodded, knowing that Wilhem would not take upon himself the responsibility of new Kindred lightly.

"Are you…and her…still…?"

"Yes. But it is as I told you – we fight against the Tzimisce, and the Lasombra."

"But you also fight the Camarilla. Their Masquerade is the only reason why we live still!" A slip, a sign of the old woman hidden within, and she sighed. It was obvious that she had worked hard to bury that old part of her, to start anew. Wilhem leaned closer, concern crossing his features as he changed the topic of the conversation.

"How is it…that you are still alive? Last I…heard of you was that you had died, in London. A pack of Tzimisce ghouls." He gestured with his hands to elaborate the rest, as his mouth could find no words. Serena smiled at the idea that he would think her dead.

"That was the point. It wasn't them – it was me. It was her, or me, and I intended to survive. So I slew…I…I killed another. I don't even know what clan she was. But I left her body there, in a place where the sun would find it. I knew you would still be watching…and others. She gave me freedom." _Whereas you could not_, but the words remained unspoken. Wilhem let the spite slide. He noted that, though it seemed to pain her to speak of her misdeeds, her face never even so much as flinched at the idea of killing another, for all her talk against the Sabbat and their ways.

"And now?"

"I own this." She raised her hands to imply the walls of the dressing room, of the club. "I am Christina Death, a caitiff who happens to own one of the foremost Gothic clubs in New York. I dance, because I feel alive again – makes me feel like I'm not hiding. I have a business partner, a Toreador, but he leaves most of everything to me.

"I receive the kine who might've reveled in being Cappadocian…the ones to who death is not something to be feared, but something to be embraced and made a part of life. It…makes me happy. I slake my lust with their blood, and they revere me for what I am, though I doubt many of them truly believe it." Her words were true – he could see it in her smile. But his own face darkened with a more pertinent question.

"Why…why would you want me to believe you were dead? You know how much I…"

"Because it was safer for me. Because of how we…felt…for each other, they were watching you as much as me. If you knew that I was alive, I would never have been able to survive this long. But…I knew it was only a matter of time before you found me again." Her eyes strained for him to believe her, and he did, he _wanted_ to. Inside his still chest, his stone heart was beginning to beat again, but the cracks were creating that familiar pain once more.

Why was it so easy for Anezka and Christof, and so difficult for them? An awkward silence fell between them as their two histories sank in. They had been different people, those eight hundred years ago. All the people they had loved were dead, long dead, but here they were being offered a new chance, and neither of them knew how to take it. Their eyes refused to meet, and then Wilhem cleared his throat.

"I think you ought to know…if you don't already…" He stopped, unsure how to phrase it. Serena looked to him, brows raised and waiting.

"Christof…is alive." A stunned look crossed Serena's face, her small mouth falling open. Wilhem sat back to watch her expression, his own carefully blank.

"How?"

"He didn't die at Vysehrad. Instead, he went into torpor – eventually, a religious group named Society of Leopold discovered his body and brought him to London, where they planned to experiment on him. He escaped…and found his way to New York, looking for Anezka." A shadow of faint envy crossed Serena's face, but it was gone as soon as it had come.

"I found him there, infiltrating the Giovanni for information. Together, and with a few others, we stopped the rising of the Tzimisce creature…he embraced Anezka. I believe they're in Europe, now." He couldn't fathom the idea that she had held onto her emotions for this long – only Toreadors were known for such frivolousness. But then he recalled the look of her face as the university burned to the ground around them, how he had nearly had to drag her from there.

Tears began to fall from her eyes, down pale cheeks, smearing black mascara that still lingered on her lashes. All Wilhem could feel was anger – here he was, after searching for her and finding her at last. After he had protected her, brought her from danger into a semblance of safety, after she had _deserted_ him, and all she could do was weep over the loss of a love she never had?! His hands clenched against the fabric of the chair as his inner beast rose within him at the smell of the blood and at the rise of his emotions.

He put his hands to his face, closing his eyes as he struggled to maintain control. In a moment he would stand to leave, and promise to never bother her again. He'd go back to Ecaterina, her servant for all eternity. All others had left her, even his sire. There seemed nothing else for him, save his slavery. He moved his hands from his face and sighed, looking up to begin the end, only to find Serena's tear-filled eyes staring at him.

"Don't you ever fight for anything that you want? Doesn't it bother you that you're left behind, at every turn?" It was as though she was reading his thoughts; his jaw hung slack. It never even occurred to him that she might know what he was going through, what his desires were. To him, everyone else was nothing but selfish desire – he was the only one who held back, who thought of others. Perhaps…perhaps it had been he who was truly selfish?

"Why does it matter when everything I want doesn't want me?" He shot back bitterly, angered to the core of his being. The beats continued to unfurl itself, taking a stronger hold within him.

"Wilhem…" Her voice was full of pitying sorrow, and she reached out a hand to him, stretching out across the centuries of loneliness, of abandonment, of always doing what was _right_.

"No! You don't see. You can't have! If you had, you wouldn't have…" _Wouldn't have left me. Would've stayed. Would've tried._ But again, the words hung on the air unspoken.

He knocked her outstretched hand aside, but it turned with a dancer's grace and caught his wrist. In a smooth movement, she slid forward from her chair and onto his lap, bringing their faces closer.

"I've always wanted you." His eyes looked up in surprise, but then there were no other thoughts in his mind aside from lust and blood.

His mouth rushed forward to take hers in a hungry kiss – no restraints held him back any longer. Her hand released his wrist and snaked around his neck while his own hands buried themselves in her long black hair. The beast within him was fully awake, and pushing at his will. His mouth broke away from hers and moved along her jaw, down to her neck. The only reply she gave was to slide her hair to one side, exposing the naked, pale skin.

He bit down hastily, into the muscle and bone of her neck, digging deep, the taut flesh of her neck pressed firmly against his lips. The blood welled up immediately, as though beckoned. Serena's form stayed solid against his, pressing against and encouraging. She uttered a low moan, loosing her own emotions as she allowed Wilhem to feed from her; his fangs slipped in, out, basking in the warmth of her blood and skin. It was an act, almost more erotic than the dance Serena had performed not more than five minutes before, they had never committed before – it was only a relationship through harsh words and slight touches. Now, hundreds of years later, they were finally consecrating it fully.

Fangs bearing down, he crushed her to him, one hand buried in her hair while the other pressed against the small of her back. Her legs were spread on top of his lap, fitting them together like two well matched puzzle pieces. He drank deeply of her, satiating the beast with her blood. Her hands clenched at his skin, reaching under his shirt, nails tearing furrows in the flesh – saying that now that she had him, she would never let him go. His tongue bathed in the blood running down his throat. It licked against her skin as he regained control and pulled back from her, struggling to not sink back down into the warmth, setting his forehead against her shoulder, at peace enough to simply have his arms wrapped around her, keeping her in place. Her own arms were around his neck, holding him like a mother holds a child. Laughing softly, Serena explained herself.

"You think I would love Christof? Once, I did. But then I realized how foolish he was, and how it had led to his death. I realized, it had been you who had saved me, who had protected me, though I resented it. I wanted to die with him, because it seemed that everything had been taken from me. But you gave me reason to live on, reason beyond the blood, the hunt, and the fear. I was only saddened to learn of our friend's survival too late – I would've liked to have seen his face once more, for helping me to realize what truly mattered to me.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to reach out, to find you, but my fear always held me back. What if they were still watching for me? What if they discovered what I really was; would I be burned like all the rest? The reservations, the _cautions_ you drove into me kept me alive, Wilhem. And that is how I came to love you. _You_, Wilhem, my brave Brujah.

"So many years, and still you are the same. How is it that you might still be he?" Wilhem shuddered against her, knowing how wrong she was. How many lives he had taken – both evil and innocent. His humanity had been on the brink of complete loss, and the only way it was saved was with Christof's help. Before his old friend had reappeared, he had been falling into an abyss that he wouldn't have been able to escape from by himself. Ecaterina, either unknowing or uncaring, had done nothing to prevent it. It seemed that both he and Serena had learned different lessons from the naïve Brujah – for he, it was that one must fight for what they wanted. For her, _what_ she truly wanted.

"I am as changed as you – had I found you before Christof, I don't doubt I would have caged you as before, or done worse, thinking I was saving you. Now…now I understand." Serena didn't reply – rather, he could feel her smile as she kissed the top of his head and buried her face in his hair. His own smile was reverberant to hers, and they remained as they were until the sun rose – encircled in a close fitting embrace in the dressing rooms of _Bella Morte_.

It seemed that, this time, God smiled down on them.


End file.
